


Your Pain, My Pleasure

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Series: Misfit Carnival (AU) [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Carnival/Freakshow AU, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You won't be able to escape him tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Pain, My Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> [this babe](http://www.fahrenheat451.tumblr.com) came up with the [Carnie/Freakshow AU](http://www.fahrenheat451.tumblr.com/tagged/The-Shitty-Nameless-Carnival), I just end up writing junk for it.

You won’t be able to escape him tonight.

After your last show, as you’re helped out from your restraints, Vanitas comes up to you, pretends he’s clapping your shoulder for a job well done. It hurts, it  _really_  hurts, considering how stiff your shoulders feel at the moment, and you grimace as he leans in just that little bit, against your ear.

“Fifteen minutes,” he whispers, his voice a deadly hiss, strange accent thick in his mouth as he rolls his sadistic tongue to speak. He gives your shoulder a rough squeeze, enough to  _bruise_ , before he lets go and saunters off, his casual stride carrying a sort of swagger that leaves you baffled as you ruffle up your untamed curls, and begin to trek back to your own wagon. He only gave you fifteen minutes, anyway, and he’ll be there whether you’re ready for him or not.

You’re quiet as you step inside the only place you feel comfortable calling home, frown when your stomach growls for a legitimate meal. You promise yourself you’ll get up early enough to grab a bite to eat that isn’t raw flesh, because there are other foods you  _should_  be eating besides such.

You change into a loose-fitting nightshirt, one that slides down your shoulders and hands limply from your figure. It’s a bit hot in here, but you don’t dare open the windows, not tonight. You don’t want people to hear more than what is absolutely inevitable. That would be of inconvenience to them, most likely, and that’s not something you’re very comfortable with. You pull on a pair of shorts, too, just for the sake of decency. You may be in your own wagon, but you’re still modest.

You make sure to wash up in the bathroom before he comes, clean your face and teeth, make sure your hands don’t have any dried blood on them. Although that is something Vanitas enjoys, he doesn’t generally like seeing (or tasting) your previous meals from the earlier evening. And, you agree, it  _is_  a little vile.

The second you hear Vanitas opening the door, you’re ready for him. You’re sitting on the bed, eyes slowly drifting over to meet molten amber as he stares at you, cold and thoughtful. His face is hard, angular, and angry as he steps inside, makes sure he locks the door behind him.

“Clean?”

You nod. Offer to show him your hands, to prove yourself to him, but he shoos the thought away with an uncaring shake of his head. He is not caring, and he is not kind, and for a moment (you mentally chortle) you had actually  _forgotten_  such a fact.

He’s already stepping out of his pants when you actually bother looking at him again, socks and shoes being disposed of as well. This would normally be the part where you undress, too, but Vanitas likes to do that for you, so you just lay back against the bed and take in a few calming breaths, stare up at the ceiling.

Try to tune out, to shut down.

Disappear.

He is not gentle, as he kneels on the bed, throwing one large, bony hand against your throat to pin your down. It’s choking, sure, but it’s not something you can’t handle. You gasp and worm a bit, but playing little things up is in your job, it’s how you live. So making Vanitas’s advances, his violence, seem real enough to make this end quicker, you’ll play on all that he throws at you.

He hisses things in a language you’re not used to, one you don’t understand. It’s not English, because the words sound too slurred, too low and poisonous. They make the air harder to breathe, make your eyes shut at you pretend they’re not meant to be so hideous, but instead a lustful murmur of love or something of the sort. You’ve always been good at pretending.

He strips you in a greedy, rough way that leaves bloody scratch marks against your stark-pale skin, leaves bruises that will make it hard for you to get locked up for your act once more tomorrow. He does not kiss you, because there isn’t pleasure in that for either of you. He is relentless as he rakes off your shorts, your underwear—demands you make this worth his while, or he’s going to give you something to scream about.

The actual act itself is not very long; Vanitas gets so wound up dragging nails across your skin and watching the blood flourish and your eyes sting with tears and other macabre actions that once he’s actually slamming into you, he has little patience with much else. Hard thrusts, ones that make tears fall from your eyes and pained noises fall dumbly from your mouth.

“ _Sí, sí, llora por mi_.” He grunts between gritted teeth, eyebrows drawn tightly together as he works you harder, faster to gain his own release. “ _Grita_   _para mí!_ ”

His nails dig into you, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs. And you unknowingly give him what he desires, throwing your head back with a pained yelp before you end up shuddering with sobs; this is not sex, and this is not love. This isn’t lust, and this is anything but fucking.

This is sensation.

The  _look_  on his face, the noticeable shudder that rolls up Vanitas’s spine as he jerks his hips violently, gasping for breath. It’s not feeling, it’s the  _pleasure_  that sends him into a star-seeing frenzy. It’s the pleasure of watching you bleed, of watching you worm and whine and beg to him, plead in a language foreign to his ears that makes him absolutely  _insane_.

And when it’s done, he climbs off like it’s the most natural thing in the goddamn world. Simply moves to sit on the end of your bed, a fist pressed to his mouth as he trembles with tiny aftershocks of pleasure that have seemingly no real effect on him. He doesn’t pant helplessly, he doesn’t thank you, he doesn’t do much else besides simply sit there, staring intently at a heap of nothing as he lets the “feeling” fade; tries to hold onto every single moment of feeling he might have actually had.

But that’s simply ridiculous, and that’s a far-fetched dream that only you wish for him. To be able to actually _feel_  something in the many, many times you spend naked together, being slapped around and abused. Being a portal to Vanitas’s own sick pleasures.

After all, he wouldn’t make much of a freak if The Boy Who Couldn’t Feel anything actually began to _feel_ something, would he?


End file.
